tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27923207981402233842024-03-13T10:08:48.591-05:00TITLEUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-16601597166655637442020-01-01T13:11:00.003-06:002011-07-30T14:30:51.920-05:00The End<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Updated 7/30/11</i><br />
Friends, work continues at a not-very-rapid pace. Rest assured, the story is not yet through but shall proceed as always intended.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Updated 4/24/11</i><br />
Wonderful readers!<br />
<br />
I'm still here. I apologize for the delayed continuation of the below-written chapters. I have recently undergone a job relocation but do rest assured that I have every intention of continuing forthright the story we have begun.<br />
<br />
Yours truly,<br />
Me<br />
<br />
------------------------<br />
**Under construction**<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Dear Reader,</div><div><br />
</div><div>The story is not yet through!</div><div><br />
</div><div>If you read this far and want me to hurry up with the writing, leave me a comment and let me know.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Salutations,</div><div>Writer</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-63964964593347578482012-04-11T17:01:00.001-05:002012-04-11T17:01:29.847-05:00Chapter 46<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next day at work Sharon and Roger inadvertently agreed not to remember their kitchenette encounter of the day before. Roger surfed the web and printed some funny images he found online as per the usual routine. The printouts didn't look as good in black and white but, as Yanni Moore relished to note, <i>color ink doesn't grow on trees</i> and therefore not a drop of cyan, magenta, nor yellow could be found anywhere in Super Megacon International's office.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sharon arrived 20 minutes late and spent another 10 minutes in her car applying her various make-up and age-battling products.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Sharon entered, Roger was busy playing Minesweeper and didn't notice her pass by. When she passed by, Sharon was busy imagining what she would have for lunch and didn't notice Roger's hurried clickety-click flag plantings.</span></div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She did notice something, though: Charlie. Charlie the motherfucking unicorn plastered push-pin style to the back wall of Roger's cubicle. Could it be? Her subconscious ran circles through and around itself. The coloration was a little off but the artistry and unicorn figure were unmistakable -- no other unicorn had the steely, wise, tenacious horn of Charlie. The blue and pink unicorns pranced in the background of the image in dim shades of light gray.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sharon stopped walking. She realized she had forgotten something in her car and turned around to go back for it. "Charlie the Unicorn" she voiced softly.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A moment later she realized that the thing she thought she had forgotten was already in her purse -- her mind had played a trick on her. She stood directly in front of Roger's desk; the clickety-click stopped. Roger looked up at Sharon.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Top o' the mornin' to you" Roger called out with a horrible mock Irish accent.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Charlie the Unicorn" Sharon said again. "Roger Thomas, I think we should be together."</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Roger was unable to process what he had just heard.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Woah, wait! I meant to say that my lip balm is right here in my purse" Sharon explained. "I don't actually think that we should be together. I meant to say that to myself in my head but my mouth said words that I would not normally expect it to say. I'm not sure why I even said it. I think you're repulsive. Eww -- gross!"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Roger gazed on surprised. He would gladly have replied but Sharon's fast words made it difficult to know what to say. "What would she say next?" he wondered. He reached into his desk drawer and grabbed his hammer, just in case he had to use it.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sharon, are you feeling alright?"</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Never better, Roger. I secretly love you with all of my heart. It's a secret, don't tell anyone. Haha" Sharon said. She knew she would regret the wording of the second sentence before it was complete -- it was as if some inner or outer force was controlling her speech rather than her typical shallow persona.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the background Dennis cussed. He rushed in and jogged straight to the corner conference room. An electrical fire had burned his house down that morning, making him 7 minutes late for the weekly status update meeting. His tardiness was considered by him to be an unforgivable, unforgettable workplace <i>faux pas </i>-- the others were more understanding.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sharon's aimless focus was interrupted by Dennis. She shook her head briefly, as if to refresh her thoughts. Roger thought he saw a tear form in the corner of her left eye. She scurried away to her desk.</span></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-91863743319624716882011-07-30T15:00:00.000-05:002011-07-30T15:00:18.271-05:00Chapter 45<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If this story were a movie, the scene would likely depict Bojargis standing mid-road. The camera would pan around his head/body in an orbital fashion clockwise, as viewed from the sky above. Night clouds would be seen, backlit by the moon and the sun as they do it. The train would continue rolling by steadily, click-clack, gushing wind up and about Bojargis' cold, pale face. The wreckage of his briefly-possessed car would glow a fuzzy orange off in the background field.<br />
<br />
Some time passed.<br />
<br />
As a result of a faulty crossing gate at the railway intersection and some other regulatory indiscretions on behalf of the railroad company, Bojargis soon found himself the beneficiary of a generous financial settlement to compensate for his radiocarpal injuries. The cost of his gain was substantial, do not doubt, but he felt rather pleased with the final settlement.<br />
<br />
A burden perhaps larger than healing his crushed wrist was explaining the nature of the injury upon returning to work the following week. He would reveal the true cause of the injury to some but mostly blamed it on a fight with a group of hoodlums that had jumped him outside the grocery store -- the story was utterly fictitious and unrealistic but teaching folk are prone to undue nervousness so it went unquestioned.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-49952008791593984332011-07-26T14:08:00.001-05:002011-07-30T14:16:14.320-05:00Chapter 44<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Like a timid gazelle slinking to a safari watering hole, Bojargis eased the throttle to the floor, unsure of what would henceforth happen. The Rampage responded in a dependable, appliance-like fashion.<br />
<br />
Before he knew it, news of his escapade had reached the local police airwaves. A case of "grand theft auto", the crocodiles called it. The night patrolman woke up when he heard the call and was on the case within several minutes.<br />
<br />
As the sirens and lights tore the sky to pieces, Bojargis caught whiff of the impending hassle his actions had attracted. He lifted his foot for a moment and then repositioned it as firmly as ever against the floor. This was no time for anything less than <i>full throttle</i>.<br />
<br />
The chase that ensued was rather low speed -- not because of the drivers' intentions but rather because of the pedestrian performance of their respective vehicles. Bojargis piloted with F1-like precision. The tires emitted minuscule squeals as he rounded corner after corner in the upper range of first gear. The air whizzing and whistling by paused briefly each time the transmission clunked into second gear.<br />
<br />
The lateness of the night worked to Bojargis' favor. His pursuer was not yet accustomed to the darkness of night and soon became distracted and misled by a poorly placed road sign with many reflectors on it. He crashed slowly into a ditch and would be unable to continue pursuit. Bojargis observed the aforementioned event in his rearview mirror. He relaxed for a moment and rounded another corner. Ten minutes passed.<br />
<br />
Bojargis himself grew weary of the night. He closed an eyelid and came into an accident at the front of a train that t-boned his new ride at full speed from the right-hand side. The damage was immense and the wreckage became engulfed in flames from the sparks and flammables that spewed every which way. The train suffered no significant damage. Bojargis crawled from the smashed shell of metal. He dragged his limp, aching body back into the middle of the road and attempted to piece together that fate which had befallen him.<br />
<br />
"Well I'll be" he thought to himself. He began shortly thereafter to sense a sharp yet dull pain sensation in his left wrist, which was bloody and smashed thinner than normal.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-15723406045883809802011-07-26T13:32:00.000-05:002015-10-22T15:14:14.263-05:00Chapter 43<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
His hands trembled with anticipation and nervousness. Bojargis caressed the Dodge fenders and licked the sidewall of the front tire. He could taste the open road and smell the air that would rush through his hair, eyes and face.<br />
<br />
Much to his pleasure, the passenger side door was unlocked. He slithered inside and peeled aside the steering column shroud like the husk on a ripe cob of corn. The simile would not continue, though, as Bojargis deftly sliced and crossed and twisted the ignition wires such that the Rampage engine soon roared to life. It kind of hummed to life, actually -- kind of like the cough of a sick cat. The night sky was filled, literally jam-packed, with this raucous mechanical sound.<br />
<br />
Bojargis paused for a moment to reflect on his surroundings. He smelled the vinyl scent, fresh as can be. The bench seat provided no meaningful lateral support. He hadn't yet figured out how to escape from the walled fortress but luckily found that magnetic sensors opened the gate as he and the car inched towards it. A light in the house behind was illuminated and angry glances shot down from the bedroom window above. Many a curse word was uttered at that moment, but Bojargis and the car rolled on to their new destiny, out into the Oklahoman night.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-31629923046641767252011-07-23T06:53:00.000-05:002015-10-22T15:15:35.544-05:00Chapter 42<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some hours later, Sharon sat at home on her sofa. To her left, a large bowl had slidden to the floor. Saucy remnants of rocky road and strawberry ice cream ran down it's round side; nothing a Rug Doctor wouldn't someday resolve. Two and one half bottles of wine sat open and empty on the coffee table. A crappy Julia Roberts movie played on the television set.<br />
<br />
Sharon was enchanted, enamored and inebriated.<br />
<br />
A second bowl of microwave popcorn sat half-eaten to her right. Progress had not ceased, simply slowed. One of those obscure Scandinavian <i>rom-spense</i> novels sat further to the right on the end table. She had read it and all of the sequels cover to cover.<br />
<br />
Soon she would resort to her home pseudo-office where her focus would return again to Charlie the Unicorn and his life of adventure.<br />
<br />
<i>"I don't live in a glass house!" </i>Sharon thought to herself. <i>"Why must I feel like a child? I love sweet and sour chicken."</i> Sharon was, at times, the shallowest of shallow. While she could, for hours on end, criticize men and boys and other females of shallowness and despicability, she herself rivaled all in these precise traits. Self-pity, loneliness, and vacuousness were not her closest friends, but perhaps some of her most consistent companions.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-15237654024507687742011-05-29T12:30:00.001-05:002011-07-23T06:55:08.201-05:00Chapter 41<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Roger arose from his desk and walked down the hallway to the left. He rounded the corner and entered the smallish kitchenette area reserved for beverage, snack and food preparation. For to maintain his calm poise and quench his parched-tongue thirst, Roger snatched from the recess of the refrigerator a carton of strawberry lemonade. A moment later, he had filled a cup with the citric drink.<br />
<br />
Sharon walked in and began to pour herself a cup of the no longer fresh, below average office coffee. Roger turned his body to face her and stared, motionless and silent. He uttered not a word. He placed his cup on the counter and crouched down into a crabwalk position.<br />
<br />
All the while, Sharon pretended with bitter determination that she hadn't noticed Roger standing, now crouching, some four feet away. It would be silly for anyone to actually believe that she had not seen him.<br />
<br />
Abandoning the ruse she had seamlessly assembled, Sharon scowled and growled, "Roger, what the fuck are you doing?"<br />
<br />
Roger was surprised to hear her speak. He was aware that she had been ignoring him and did not expect her to crack with such little provocation. He cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-35243643034878015962011-05-01T13:02:00.000-05:002011-05-01T13:02:46.546-05:00Chapter 40<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">That evening Bojargis returned to 44434 Ticonderoga Trail and scaled the fence with spider monkey-like poise.<br />
<br />
Once inside, the object of his dreams was only yards, precious few paces, away. He leapt at the thought and scurried closer to confirm that which his eyes and senses were telling him.<br />
<br />
From this point forward, things would no longer be the same. Bojargis would henceforth be known as a man of action -- a convicted felon, also -- but more significantly, someone who goes out and gets that which he needs and/or desires.<br />
<br />
Three-hundred and sixty-five days later Bojargis made purchase of a tattoo skin artwork for to commemorate the occasion. He came up with the basic design himself, but left it in the hands of a skilled artisan to emblazon across the landscape of his back. The result was beautiful.<br />
<br />
The tattoo would one day be displayed on <i>ugliesttattoos.com</i> but purely due to a lack of understanding, not because it was anything less than strikingly handsome.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-3814761851214130082011-05-01T12:06:00.000-05:002011-05-01T12:06:49.719-05:00Chapter 39<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Some days passed and Bojargis found himself woefully sorrowed at the confounding spot in which he found himself.<br />
<br />
A man came by and stopped next to where Bojargis sat. The man was fit and dressed sharply: straw hat, searsucker suit and white patton leather shoes. He appeared to be roughly 35.<br />
<br />
The man grumbled and mumbled slightly to himself.<br />
<br />
Bojargis took the opportunity to explain his situation in great detail. The man leaned slightly to one side and clicked his tongue, as if to say that he, too had had his share of tough times.<br />
<br />
"I tell you what, though" Bojargis continued "I am in a rut. I've been in this rut since forever. You might say that I dwell in a rut; I'm a natural rut-dweller of sorts! Granted, every rut has its ups and downs, but a rut is a rut and the sun doesn't always shine in a rut."<br />
<br />
His new friend nodded gently, sampling the light breeze through his nostril holes.<br />
<br />
"The chance of any further delay causes me to feel a great wariness" the discussion continued, with Bojargis now more specifically referring to the object of his desire which had inspired his locomo-journey "which is exceeded perhaps only by the weariness the aforementioned delays have planted within me".<br />
<br />
The stranger began humming Whitney Houston's '<i>I have nothing</i>'. Bojargis wasn't sure what to think at first and paused to try and understand the deeper meaning of this unusual response.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-59600151703706914842011-04-27T14:36:00.000-05:002015-10-22T15:16:44.477-05:00Chapter 38<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dejected Bojargis popped a squat on the curb and attempted to hatch a plan for to make what he wanted his.<br />
<br />
It took some time, quite a great while, indeed, but eventually he was able to devise the perfect scheme.<br />
<br />
He arose and went again to the buzzer upon the gate.<br />
<br />
<i>Click.</i> "Who is it?" the voice inquired.<br />
<br />
Bojargis replied that he was an employee of the insurance company providing coverage of the object which he had previously attempted to purchase and stated that he would need to have a look-see at it as there had been some or other sort of matter.<br />
<br />
<i>Click.</i> "There must have been a misunderstanding -- I can assure you there's been no incident with my property" the owner proclaimed.<br />
<br />
Bojargis shook his fist in frustration. He tersely crowed, "listen here, sir -- why don't you just let me take a peek and we'll be on our ways, now?".<br />
<br />
The voice replied that it was afraid not and that Bojargis had best be on his merry way.<br />
<br />
"<i>Curses!</i>" he thought to him self.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-13908120852294608402011-04-24T14:45:00.002-05:002011-04-25T13:02:48.219-05:00Chapter 37<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As the bus rumbled away, Bojargis kicked dirt and pebbles in its direction. They did not strike the bus in any meaningful way nor calm his raging furor.<br />
<br />
It was only the beautiful sunset of a vision for which Bojargis had made the journey that could calm his screaming heart.<br />
<br />
Bojargis strode up to the gate belonging to the house at the address to which he had been shuttled. He rang the buzzer and took a deep breath.<br />
<br />
<i>Click.</i> "Mansfield residence, who is it?" a voice emanated forth.<br />
<br />
Bojargis replied with some words, at first mumbling and then building to a more confident, composed oration.<br />
<br />
<i>Click. </i>The voice replied "I'm sorry sir, it is no longer available".<br />
<br />
Bojargis felt certain he had misheard or misunderstood. "What do you mean? I can see it right there." He gestured dumbly. Indeed he could see it just over there, through the gate.<br />
<br />
<i>Click. </i>"What I mean to say," the voice explained "is that it's no longer for sale. My boy Gregory has taken a liking to it at perhaps just the last moment and I've decided not to sell. I am a sucker for puppy-dog eyes." A loving chortle was heard through the audio messaging box.<br />
<br />
Bojargis was not amused. He considered his options. Perhaps it would have been wise to call in advance before boarding the train on this journey.<br />
<br />
He decided to take out a chunk of his frustration on the mailbox affixed to the also-stucco fence. This task was completed hastily and with ease but was of surprisingly little comfort, Bojargis found. He also found defecating in the driveway to be unsatisfactory, messy as the project proved to be. Bystanders watched the onslaught in bewilderment for four minutes.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-60836894993444117272011-04-24T14:29:00.000-05:002011-04-24T14:29:00.640-05:00Chapter 36<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The sun beat down like a flock of seagulls upon a box of Krispy Kreme donuts -- that is to say <i>ravenously</i>.<br />
<br />
Roger and Bojargis had, at this moment, been experiencing the exact same thoughts and emotions. They did not know this, of course.<br />
<br />
The difference, however, lies in one's actions perhaps as much as the initial thought (*a notion deserving of further consideration -- after all, chapters have been written expressing directly that thought can be equally damning as action).</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-7315838494132373942011-04-11T23:55:00.000-05:002011-04-11T23:55:27.443-05:00Chapter 35<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The train hummed to a stop on the west side of town. The broad dry plain so often associated with the stereotypical Oklahoma protruded from the dull horizon. Bojargis was hesitant to go outside for fear that he might lose his senses or mind -- 'what was this place' he thought 'that so faithfully refuses to distinguish itself in any memorable or appreciable way?'.<br />
<br />
This judgment was unfair, though -- Bojargis had only seen a small fraction of Tulsa's charm.<br />
<br />
He stuffed the Walkman into his fanny pack and set out on foot. He had an address written down, virtually, in his brain and he would find it soon.<br />
<br />
Bojargis had done no research in advance of his journey as to the whereabouts of his destination. Much to his fortune, it was not hard to find -- due to construction and a shifting political climate, Ticonderoga Trail had been designated the temporary new 'main street' and 44434 was right next to the interim City Hall.<br />
<br />
He walked a block away from the train station and boarded the first bus that hummed to a stop. "Driver, take me to 44434 Ticonderoga Trail" he said.<br />
<br />
The driver replied with a confused reply and a proclamation that orders typically are not delivered as such.<br />
<br />
"That's all fine and well, Mr. Driver Man" Bojargis countered "but I've got four dollars that says you're going to take me to straight to 44434 Ticonderoga Trail and you're going to like it, too."<br />
<br />
"Four dollars?" the driver inquired.<br />
<br />
"That's about the size of it. You best not delay any more, though -- time's a wastin'."<br />
<br />
The driver looked at his watch and took another bite of the Baby Ruth bar stowed in his cupholder. "Make it twenty-seven dollars and you got yourself a goddamn deal."<br />
<br />
Bojargis spat out of contempt. He grabbed the book the passenger in front was reading (a newly purchased copy of Danielle Steel's <i>The Ranch</i>) and tore it in half. He withdrew twenty-seven crumpled one dollar bills from his fanny pack and threw them on the floor at the driver's feet. "Get on with it, then" he shouted.<br />
<br />
The bus lurched forward with a raucous surge. Bojargis flew backwards, completely unprepared for a lesson on inertia. He leapt at the nearest overhead grab rail and caught it like a flying squirrel grasping a tree branch from a groundward descent.<br />
<br />
Two blocks and about twenty seconds later, the bus screeched to a skidding halt. Bojargis gazed outside and saw the numbers 44434 engraved on a plague at the gate of a handsome stucco mansion. "<i>Fucking shit!</i>"<i> </i>he exclaimed.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-64891981798625876072011-04-01T17:59:00.003-05:002011-04-11T23:29:54.427-05:00Chapter 34<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Charmed by the sunny sunniness of the day, the bright light that shone outside, Roger settled into his desk for a nap. He had a small pillow for this very purpose that he placed upon his desk and flipped his computer's custom scrolling "NAP NAP NAP" screensaver on so any visitors would see that he was taking a nap.<br />
<br />
By the time Yanni and Melinda walked out to lunch, Roger was fast asleep. Yanni didn't notice, which was for the best.<br />
<br />
Roger's dreams began quickly, perhaps aided by the common office noises and the warm and well-lit environment. He didn't always remember his dreams, but sometimes did. It's hard to imagine why memory serves so sporadically.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>It was the ocean, and in the ocean an ice flow floated towards the dry, grassy shore. A sizable herd </i><i>of savage penguins stood at attention, leaning in unison along the edge of the ice towards the land </i><i>they approached. They snarled viciously, beaks flapping to and fro. Some of them leapt up and down </i><i>with unbridlable arctic rage and anxiety. The din was unthinkable.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>In the distance, some dogs barked. Some tigers, lions and leopards lay sunning themselves on the land </i><i>at the edge of the grass. There was a zebra there, too, eating grass dumbly. A withered but still </i><i>formidable tree stood some yards into the grass and upon it the birds were perched -- not the penguin </i><i>birds, these were just some other ordinary birds.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>The ice flow came upon another smaller ice flow that sat between it and the land of dirt. Upon this </i><i>smaller flow was a mighty mother polar bear curled up in a ball having a snooze. Oh, what poor </i><i>timing! Ironically, she probably was dreaming of penguins the moment the ice flows collided. The ice </i><i>crunched and sent morsels of snow and ice shooting skyward from the force of the impact.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>This was a world of fantasy, of course. And in this world, the polar bear awoke with a start, </i><i>knocking her Coca-Cola bottles all astray. It was too late, though. In an instant, less than an </i><i>instant, the penguins leapt and pecked and the lightning strike of their black beaks was too much. </i><i>Mother bear was overwhelmed and the smaller flow quickly ran red with her lifeblood that she </i><i>customarily kept on the inside of her bear body.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>The dogs paused for a moment, hardly able to believe what they witnessed, and then continued with the </i><i>barking. One of the tigers lifted his head in surprise. "Holy crap" he thought to himself, in tiger </i><i>speak.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>David Attenborough and Oprah looked on from a helicopter hovering in the arctic skies above. They </i><i>struggled to summon the words to describe the penguin-bear role reversing massacre they had just </i><i>beheld. "Holy crap," Oprah shouted through her headset "wicked!".</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>The ice continued on its path towards the land.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
At that moment, a door opened and slammed. The sound and rush of air caused Roger to stir and wake from his slumber. He noticed he had accidentally knocked some papers from his desk to the floor. He carefully picked them up, sorted them and dropped them in the recycling bin.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-73517404042581573152011-03-18T02:31:00.000-05:002011-03-18T02:31:45.410-05:00Chapter 33<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">And so, bored to the point of anguish, Bojargis pranced to and fro in search of diversion or entertainment.<br />
<br />
In a spurt of nostalgia and desperation, he traded his book to a girl with a Walkman (the genuine article) and a Garth Brooks cassette. He had no choice but to trust the batteries were as fresh as she promised.<br />
<br />
Now, in a generation and a people in which the written word is valued, one might rush to the conclusion that Bojargis had been taken advantage of. And yet, in other circles it might seem clear as day or a star-filled night that it was the girl, foolish in youth, of whom advantage had been taken.<br />
<br />
Given careful analysis, the reasonable observer can only reach one conclusion.<br />
<br />
Henceforth Bojargis listened intently to the music and felt no regret. He listened to the cassette 6 times. There is perhaps no faster way to develop appreciation and contempt for Garth Brooks.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-73811045758703224362011-03-16T02:07:00.002-05:002011-05-22T12:11:44.324-05:00Chapter 32<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Casual, beautiful reader, reflect now upon the passages we have shared together.<br />
<br />
A short while back the life of dutiful Linda the librarian was discussed. In what would be viewed by many as an excusable oversight, Linda's <i>condition</i> was not earlier mentioned.<br />
<br />
Suffer is not the word she would use, but it was clear for most to see that Linda suffered from a severe addiction to crackers. She felt passionately about Better Cheddars, Cheez Its, Chicken In A Biskits, Saltines, Ritzes, Wheat Thins and, of course, Triscuits. Linda's office could be confused for a cracker dispensary or sampling station were it not for the many books and library signs adorning the adjacent rooms. One of the previous assistant librarians had joked about crackers on one occasion -- her dismissal was swift and merciless.<br />
<br />
On the weekends when she was not reading or preparing to read or contemplating something she had just read, Linda would come into her office and reorganize the cracker boxes and eat crackers. She would try mixing crackers one with another. She had on several occasions spent hours comparing the virtues and idiosyncrasies of Better Cheddars, Cheez Its, Cheese Nips, and various other cheese-flavored treats.<br />
<br />
She didn't feel bad because crackers are mostly healthy, but it should be clear that no addiction so frenetic is healthy.<br />
<br />
When she wasn't discussing which school employees should be relieved of their duties, she would often compare and contrast crackers with her coworkers. They mostly were perplexed by her acute focus and did not really have the knack for such in-depth analysis.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-7449677722714911302011-03-16T01:42:00.000-05:002011-03-16T01:42:45.797-05:00Chapter 31<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
On the notion of farewells, Bojargis had always been rather nonchalant. He sometimes regretted that his nonchalantness may be perceived as lack of sentiment, but it was typically not indicative of such.<br />
<br />
On this journey, Bojargis had said no goodbyes and made precious little alert to the outside world that he would be traveling from one location to another. He reminded himself of the wind which can be fairly predicted given a broad dataset and meteorological experience but, lacking such expertise, seems quite unpredictable and unstable and woeful. Would some of the people he knew care to know of his trek? Indubitably. Should some of them be foretold? The point would not be immediately known. In the event of some tragedy, would they be surprised to learn of his destination? Some because they didn't know where he previously was and others because they didn't know where nor why he had gone.<br />
<br />
None of this mattered, though, or rather, it mattered, of course, but not so much as to alter space and time. He would return anyway -- it was no thing.<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-32698373480130512772011-02-17T00:48:00.000-06:002011-02-17T00:48:48.871-06:00Chapter 30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">On the seventeenth of April, Bojargis boarded the train from Acraborn to Tulsa. He carried nothing with him but a smile, a book and a fanny pack stuffed with cash.<br />
<br />
As he boarded, Bojargis shuffled hurriedly to his seat. He had never been on a train before and wasn't sure what to expect.<br />
<br />
It took what seemed like hours for the wheels to start turning. The train moved slowly at first and then much faster. Bojargis began to read his book after a while but soon realized he would not be able to focus on the book. He marked his page and closed it gently. He tried to sleep but was not tired.<br />
<br />
After two and a half hours, Bojargias began to feel antsy. He stood and strolled up the length of the aisle. He ventured into the snack car and bought a dry ham sandwich. It wasn't very good and it was kind of expensive, but he felt it was a justifiable travel expense.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-70724211373204570122011-02-12T12:49:00.000-06:002011-02-12T12:49:32.392-06:00Chapter 29<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">After Roger had gone, Yanni closed his office door and wept deeply. He put on his favorite Andrea Bocelli cd and turned off the lights.<br />
<br />
Yanni asked himself silently why he'dn't the courage to shout Roger out of the building once and for all. In a world where things are called <i>banes</i> with distasteful regularity, Yanni felt compelled to dub Roger as such. He digressed.<br />
<br />
He called in his assistant Melinda.<br />
<br />
She was disappointed to find Yanni sulking in the dark once again. "Yanni, what are you doing? You know this isn't good for you" she said knowingly.<br />
<br />
Melinda had been Yanni's assistant for 3 years, ever since he had been promoted. She knew him well and was a key player in at least one of his divorces.<br />
<br />
"Melinda, come in and shut the door" Yanni instructed her with unusual boldness. "Melinda, you're fired. Pack up your things this afternoon and never come back."<br />
<br />
"What?!" Melinda inquired. "Did I do something wrong?"<br />
<br />
Melinda wasn't entirely attracted to Yanni, per sé, but she was attracted to his position and his life. She pitied him and knew that he was volatile and sometimes suffered from low self-esteem. She thought he looked like Marco Antonio Solís and loved that most among his attributes.<br />
<br />
"Just go, Melinda. I don't need to explain -- I don't need your permission to fire you."<br />
<br />
"Come on now, Yanni -- what's wrong? Just yesterday you told me I deserved a raise and some day I might have your job. These signals you transmit are mixed, to say the least." Melinda perceived there might be something more to her firing than her work and results.<br />
<br />
"Alright, fine. Melinda, why can't I fire that asshole Roger Thomas. He's a thorn in my side -- <i>a thorn in my mighty lion paw</i>!" By now, the people whose desks were near Yanni's office were aware that he was having another emotional fit. They were not distracted nor surprised. "I have several well-documented reasons to cut him loose and yet, still, I cannot muster the gall to do it."<br />
<br />
"Oh, Yanni." Melinda's most prized workplace attribute was the ability calm and soothe Yanni's worries and she knew it. "Roger is quite the malcontent. He's a hideous creature and a horrible man. But I think you and I both know that he's got the skills this company needs. He's a wizard of the networks -- am I right? You know I am. It's not wrong to be ashamed -- you just can't bring yourself to do what you know on the inside is wrong. You're such an awesome boss you can bring yourself to do no wrong."<br />
<br />
Yanni looked up and saw Melinda's manipulative and somewhat-enamored gaze. He wondered what he had done to deserve such fair counsel from an entry-level employee.<br />
<br />
"Let's go get lunch" he said to her.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-1358612351496830942011-02-09T00:49:00.002-06:002011-02-16T23:41:36.581-06:00Chapter 28<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">While Russ spent time making things right, Bojargis spent time making other things right.<br />
<br />
When he returned to his classroom, some of the kids had already arrived back from lunch so he instructed them to draw pretty things. He didn't expect they would actually succeed, but thought the process and end result might be entertaining.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the only artistic implements he could offer were the large whiteboard on the wall, three dry erase markers (blue, orange and green), yellow construction paper and a box of only orange crayons.<br />
<br />
Three of the kids eagerly volunteered and pleaded to use the whiteboard and markers. They probably thought their publicly displayed artwork would be appreciated and not openly ridiculed. Fools. That's what school's for, though -- live and learn.<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, most of the kids drew flowers. A couple of the boys drew women (presumably strippers) and a couple of the girls drew women (presumably fashion models). As the remaining students arrived, their classmates told them what to do and Russ was pleased with the relative peace and ease that settled in the room.<br />
<br />
Russ fixed his mind on more important things. He opened Frostwire and searched feverishly for any song by Rod Stewart. He had already amassed a collection of over 150 classic Rod Stewart hits but was ever confident that he would find more melodic treasures.<br />
<br />
One student arrived over 10 minutes late from lunch. "Sandy" Bojargis called out "why are you so late?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know" she replied.<br />
<br />
"Well that's not a very good answer. Can't you come up with something a little more creative?"<br />
<br />
"I was out eating dandelions and I lost track of the time." Sandy's voice trembled.<br />
<br />
"That's not a particularly good explanation, Sandy. I'm not sure whether you're jerking my chain or whether that's the truth, so I'm going to let it slide." Bojargis could not recall the last time he had eaten a dandelion. "Sandy, it pains me to say this -- my heart truly aches -- but to make up for your tardiness I'm going to need you to come over here and stand in the corner for the next couple of hours."<br />
<br />
Sandy was comforted by Bojargis' gentle tone but she felt she should be humiliated and devastated by the extensive punishment upon which she embarked. Tears welled in her eyes as she strode to the corner.<br />
<br />
Bojargis donned his headphones and listened to 'Maggie May' three consecutive times.<br />
<br />
After a dozen minutes standing lock-kneed in the corner, Sandy fainted. Bojargis pretended not to notice. Sandy came to a minute later and dutifully resumed her penal standing position.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-83958577563013993972011-02-09T00:23:00.000-06:002011-02-09T00:23:23.086-06:00Chapter 27<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Back in his office Russ shut the door and sank into his rich faux leather office chair. He held his head in his hands for a moment and tried to wipe that morning's memory from his mind. He was unsuccessful, but at least the pause provided a brief moment of stress relief.<br />
<br />
He pondered his vomit-drenched slacks, crumpled in a ball in a Walmart bag on the floor of his car. By the time the last class bell had rung, surely they would reek like a beached whale.<br />
<br />
Russ got on the online and decided to shop for a new pair of dress pants. He shopped long and hard. The process took three hours. Finally, after an exhaustive search, Russ found that which he sought. As with many internet searches, his shopping search reached it's exciting finale on Ebay. Russ made purchase of a lot of 50 average pairs of dress pants. He hoped they would fit well and, at just $7 each, the risk was one he found prudent to accept. The best part? The lot of pants were mixed colors -- he would soon have a virtual rainbow of tan, brown, black, grey, and blue dress pants, all with predictable and consistent sizing.<br />
<br />
This was, Russ considered, perhaps his finest moment of frugality and wisdom.<br />
<br />
He considered that he might even be able to sell some of the fashion-averse slacks to some of his educating coworkers for a handsome profit. This type of clever reselling would probably be frowned upon by the school board.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-36964069902200757242011-01-30T13:46:00.000-06:002011-01-30T13:46:26.404-06:00Chapter 26<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">One minute and 48 seconds later Bojargis rolled to a stop back in the school parking lot. There weren't any close parking spots available, so he pulled up along the curb by the front door.<br />
<br />
He considered for a few brief moments whether it would be best to take his lunch in to the teachers' lounge to eat, or to eat out in the car. He chose the second of these options.<br />
<br />
The <i>Cheddar Onion Crunch</i> was delicious. It dripped and sweated flavor.<br />
<br />
Bojargis consumed some of the root beer such that half of the 250ml bottle of Yukon Andy would fit in the cup, thus forming a peculiar fusion of alcohol and sweetness. He drank the rest and placed the empty glass bottle on the dash so the sun would evaporate any remaining residue.<br />
<br />
About this time Russ returned from his mid-day expedition to Walmart. He strolled angrily across the parking lot sporting a new pair of light gray sweatpants.<br />
<br />
"Hey, what's up, Russ?" Bojargis called out. "Is it time for gym class?"<br />
<br />
"Man, fuck you. Hey is that whiskey? I told you before Bojarg you can't be drinking out here." Russ talked about how someone from the PTA or the schoolboard would come by and find Bojargis' conduct unbecoming of a public educator. He even speculated and proclaimed that there's probably some union guideline against drinking on school property.<br />
<br />
"Alright then, back to class. This conversion has officially turned to <i>bullshit</i>." Bojarg crawled out the window Dukes of Hazzard-style. Russ was impressed with his composed serpentine maneuver, but pretended not to notice.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-58866680328447806842011-01-28T23:15:00.002-06:002011-01-28T23:17:18.917-06:00Chapter 25<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">The lunch bell sounded at noon.<br />
<br />
"Lunchtime, kids" Bojargis announced "everyone out." He grabbed his keys and tore down the hallway like a grizzly bear trapped in the penguin exhibit at the zoo. He tried not to knock any of the kids down as he stormed out to his car.<br />
<br />
The sun was as high in the sky as it had ever been. Bojargis retrieved his Blublockers from the glovebox and installed them upon his face. The Rampage trumpeted to life and squealed out of the parking lot.<br />
<br />
After three stop signs, a yield sign and two yellow lights, Bojargis tenderly lifted his foot from the accelerator. He signaled and pulled into the A&W drive-thru.<br />
<br />
"Welcome to A&W, how can I help you?" the voicebox machine crackled.<br />
<br />
"Gimme a Cheddar Onion Crunch, a small french fries and a root beer."<br />
<br />
"Is that you Mr. Nickelstorp?" the voice again crackled. The attendee was Cindy Johnston, one of Bojargis' former students.<br />
<br />
"You're goddamn right it's me," Bojarg replied. "Is there some kind of teachers' union discount here?"<br />
<br />
"The total is $5.39, pull around the window."<br />
<br />
Bojargis proceeded to the window. On the other side of the glass he recognized another of his former students, though he didn't recall the boy's name. The boy asked for the amount due.<br />
<br />
"Here you go, kid." Bojarg handed him two crumpled one-dollar bills and a fistful of mixed change.<br />
<br />
On the way back to school, Bojargis stopped at JL Liquors to pick up a small bottle of their finest, cheapest whiskey.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-37952039184566522432011-01-25T23:56:00.001-06:002011-01-25T23:59:32.799-06:00Chapter 24<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Three weeks to the day after the passing of his second ex-wife, Yanni Moore called Roger into his office.<br />
<br />
"Roger," he said slowly "come into my office."<br />
<br />
Roger was immediately suspect and assumed a defensive stance, physically and mentally. He wondered what his asshole boss might want.<br />
<br />
"Listen, Rog" Yanni began, he was well aware that Roger hated being called 'Rog', "I heard there was some sort of an incident on the Twitter the other day. From the sounds of it, you're not too fond of the good ol' Yan-meister, <i>if you know what I mean</i>."<br />
<br />
"That's about the size of it, Yanni" Roger confirmed. "I think you're a real prick and I don't enjoy working for you. I tweeted that on the Twitter to the Twitterverse."<br />
<br />
"And you're okay with that, then? Because you know, Rog, if you feel that way -- I mean, if you really feel so strongly -- we could make this little problem go away. When I say that, I mean we, collaboratively speaking, of course, could arrange for you to no longer work here -- if that's what your heart truly desires. Do you get my drift?"<br />
<br />
"I think I do" Roger replied.<br />
<br />
"Do you get it? Do you smell what the Yan' is cooking, Roger? I'm not afraid to play with fire and let me tell you, Roger, <i>I play for keeps.</i>" Yanni's voice rose with anxiety. His nostrils flared like a wild stallion and the armpits of his shirt were visibly damp.<br />
<br />
"Are we done here?" Roger asked. He wondered to himself why he would want to rush the meeting along -- this had proven to be, afterall, the most exciting part of his work week.<br />
<br />
"No, sir!" Yanni replied. "There was a report of another incident. Sharon told me that you kicked her in the leg. Can you tell me, just give me an idea, why you did that?"<br />
<br />
"No problem -- she's a fucking bitch! I wish she were here right now -- I'd kick her again. Maybe in the mouth."<br />
<br />
Yanni did not enjoy Roger's sense of frankness. He was woefully unable to distinguish sarcastic humor from truthful admission and, in this case, his reaction was not well-suited to either of these possibilities.<br />
<br />
"Ok, Roger. I think that's about enough. Go back to your desk and get to work." Yanni was furious on multiple levels. He had plenty of justification to fire Roger on the spot, but didn't have the energy to do it.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2792320798140223384.post-32393790357272637052011-01-18T23:41:00.002-06:002011-01-18T23:51:09.829-06:00Chapter 23Russ was furious and disgusted. His fancy pants were soiled -- perhaps permanently -- and, worst of all, there was no one to blame. The school nurse or someone probably knew what little bastard was responsible for the vom-bomb, but he knew he couldn't punish the wretched fucker anyway.<div><br /></div><div>He stormed back into the school office, shaking droplets of vomit off his pleats.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Marjorie, get me some paper towels" he called out. Marjorie was the school nurse. She was preparing for the upcoming lice crackdown and had carefully organized the lice prodding sticks across her workstation.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Whoopsy-daisy!" Marjorie exclaimed cheerily upon seeing the vile scum into which Russ had slipped. "It looks like you've some vomit on your slacks, dear Russ."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, Marjorie," Russ replied "my slacks are shellacked in vomit. You're very observant -- are you a nurse or a scientist or something?" Marjorie brushed his sarcasm aside and provided a stack of dense, coarse, nonabsorbent paper towels.</div><div><br /></div><div>Furiously as he tried, Russ was unable to prevent a large stain from forming around his posterior. He soon realized he would need to drive to the Walmart down the street to make purchase of some new leg tapestries. While he lamented the extra expense on his already strained and modest income, he secretly enjoyed taking trips outside the school during the day -- but mostly he dreaded facing the store clerks while adorned in what should have remained in some kids stomach.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com